8: Fallout
by Math Girl
Summary: A nuclear disaster leads to near melt-down, with disasterous consequences.
1. Default Chapter

**FALLOUT**

1

When the Islamic Republic of Persia pieced their reactor together in later days, they discovered what had gone wrong. A combination of budget cuts, too few control rods, and a container leak had led to near melt down, and a terrible disaster.

The elderly reactor was located in a scrubby, mountainous wasteland not far from Kerman, about 150 miles from the border, and four miles away from a small village threatened by fallout and nuclear fire.

High overhead, Scott Tracy surveyed the danger zone. On first pass, he saw drab yellow brick, mud-chinked stone, brush goat pens and milling people, pointing up in shock at Thunderbird 1. Then, having doubled back to gauge the scenario at reactor 15, he called over to John, aboard Thunderbird 2 with Virgil and Gordon.

"Thunderbird 2, from Thunderbird 1. You with me, John?"

"Go ahead, Scott," his younger brother responded promptly. "What's the situation?"

"Looks like a two-parter from here; radiation hazard and refugees. We'll have to split up. You and I'll take the reactor, and let Virge and Gordon handle evacuating the villagers. Clear?"

"F.A.B., Scott. I'll pass it along. ETA fifteen minutes... (sorry, my bad). According to Virgil, fifteen minutes, _thirty-one seconds, _from... mark."

Scott smiled at his brother's exasperated tone. He didn't need to see John, to imagine the cocked eyebrow and long-suffering expression. Virgil was a stickler for exact measurements. Always had been. John, though, tended to think in parsecs, Astronomical Units, and gigabytes. Bang; instant culture clash. The two got along well enough, just eyed each other strangely, at times. Like all brothers everywhere, maybe.

"Right," said their dark-haired field commander. "Just make it quick. The reactor's venting something. Smoke and steam, looks like. Radiation sensor's off the scale, and this wind's blowing the ash cloud straight at the village."

"On our way, Scott." John, again. "I'll start suiting up."

"F.A.B. See you in a few."

The comm cut off, and Scott brought his Bird around for another pass, hunting out potential landing sites. There was plenty of room for 2 between the village and mountains, but he'd have to put Thunderbird 1 down closer to the stricken reactor, on as level a patch as he could find. They hadn't much time, if his on-board computer had calculated the radiation level correctly. 325 REMs at over a mile away, and rising fast. Up close, it was even worse. The big cement building was on fire, its dome and cooling tower cracked and crumbling.

Working quickly, Scott brought Thunderbird 1 down in a storm of sand and screaming rockets, then shut her down, unstrapped, and got out his silvery radiation suit, thinking,

_'Make it fast, guys. This one's gonna be bad.'_

He was suited up and halfway down the ladder when the dark, gliding shadow of Thunderbird 2 eclipsed the blistering midday sun. First, the deep, subterranean engine rumble; rocks, sand and even Thunderbird 1 were bounced around by the tooth-rattling vibration and occasional hissing geyser-pop of 2's steering rockets. From this vantage, Scott felt an awful lot like an ant, gazing up in wonder at a descending boot sole. 'Huge' didn't even begin to describe her.

With a delicacy that belied her hulking size, she dropped close enough for John to be winched down, then roared off south, headed for the endangered village, leaving the two brothers to battle radiation and fire in Brains' newly modified hazard suits. They'd been improved, the engineer claimed, and Scott had to admit that his felt lighter and more flexible... and quite warm. Still, if the new alloy absorbed ionizing radiation as well as Hackenbacker said it would, he supposed he could handle a little heat. Better than another bout of radiation sickness, at any rate.

As an anxious mob of scientists and security guards pelted up, Scott clapped a gloved hand to his taller brother's slim shoulder.

"How're you doing?" He called over the hazard suit's helmet comm. John was relatively untried at rescues, spending most of his time in space, until recently. He'd handled things admirably during the Macedonian situation, but that had been awhile, and Scott wanted to be sure his brother could take the pressure. John's response was utterly calm, however.

"Hot as hell. You?"

"Same here. These suits may get the job done, but Brains didn't design them with comfort in mind." Another understatement. He was frying in there. Moving to meet the on-coming crowd, Scott added, "Talk to the people for me. Find out who's in charge and what's happened, then tell them to get back and take shelter."

"Right." Swiveling to face the concerned plant workers, John thought a bit, called up his rusty Persian, and began firing questions.

The whip-thin, big-mustached project leader, a Doctor Ahmet, gave him the basics, breaking into equally halting English when a term or phrase confused his serious young listener.

"Core meltdown," John reported grimly, once he'd urged the worried official to get his people to safety. "Ahmet says a team of volunteers went in about twenty minutes ago to try and shut things down, but they haven't come back." He'd gotten a map of sorts, too; a fire-escape diagram that one of the technicians 'd had the foresight to yank off a wall.

"Okay, then," Scott responded, nodding behind his transparent face mask, "let's do this. Under the circumstances, John, you know better than I do how to handle the situation. You lead, I'll follow."

Ice-blond John wasted no time on surprise or emotion, saying,

"We'll get in, get the volunteer party out, then shut her down. Comms may go out, so stay in visual contact."

"Got it."

Plan established, the two brothers headed deep into the cracked and burning reactor, once more risking their lives to save others.

Meanwhile, Virgil had set Thunderbird 2 down, one hundred and fifty two meters north of the village. According to plan, he'd remain aboard to monitor the situation, and forward communications from base to his brothers. Without thunderbird 5, scanning and control were far more haphazard than usual. He didn't like it much, but accepted the necessity; if they had to pull out in a hurry, Thunderbird 2 needed her pilot at the helm, not Gordon, or John.

As Gordon unstrapped and got up, Virgil hit a series of switches, releasing pod six, and triggering a set of powerful hydraulic legs to begin raising the Bird off the ground. Almost immediately, though, she lurched sideways, slamming Gordon into the bulkhead.

"Sorry!" Virgil called over one shoulder, as his red-haired younger brother picked himself up. "Sand's less stable than I thought. She'll settle soon. You okay?"

"Good t' go... once the little flyin' things clear off," Gordon quipped blurrily, prodding at a knot above his left temple. Jeff Tracy's well-aged whiskey had got to him, or he'd have felt sorrier for Alan, left behind at the last minute, because his mum didn't think nuclear reactors any place for a 14-year old boy. "Luckily," Gordon went on, "It's just my head."

Virgil smiled.

"Be careful out there; the wind's picking up, and that ash 'll be falling soon," he advised, growing serious again. Lowering pod 5's boarding ramp, the big, brown-eyed pilot added, "No heroics, Kiddo. Get the people loaded up and settled in, and we'll haul them off to Tehran for medical treatment. Got it?"

"Right. In, out; slam, bam, thank you, Ma'am. I'm off."

And Virgil chuckled,

"Dumb-ass." Then, hollering after him, "I'm serious! _Think first! _...And leave the girls alone, unless you want it chopped off and handed back to you in a box. They mean business, around here."


	2. Chapter 2: Entry

_2_

The deeper they got, the worse conditions became. Close to the reactor core, the air was filled with smoke, and split wide open by a siren's shrill keening. John had the vague impression of flaking paint, pitted concrete, warning placards and rusted pipes. Not much else to see, as it had gotten dark in there pretty quickly, necessitating the use of the suits' head lamps. The close, stifling atmosphere fairly crackled with hard radiation.

John lost contact with 5's computer almost immediately, then Scott a little afterward. Too much interference. He nearly tripped over the first volunteer. A woman in a stained white coat and modest head scarf lay crumpled on the ground, retching miserably. Her dosimeter badge indicated well over 90 sieverts. Lethal, and then some.

Waving to get his older brother's attention, John indicated what he was about, then bent over the anguished woman. She clutched at him with pleading, dark eyes. Dying, undoubtedly; but she deserved better than to do it alone and sick, in a puddle of vomit.

Wiping at her face with one end of the head cloth, John scooped her off the floor and headed back outside, promising that all would be well. She was scientist enough to know he was lying, but the look in her wide eyes told him she appreciated the comforting fairy tale.

He left her outside in a tiny patch of shade, with a scrounged-up bottle of water. He could see WorldGov Civil Defense trucks heading along the mountain road, trailing a long plume of yellow dust. The cavalry, at last.

Helping the young woman drink a bit, John turned to go, but she wouldn't release his hand. Even through the insulated glove, he felt her despairing grip. For some reason, he didn't simply pull free.

"I'll come back," he promised, in her own language, "but there are people still in there who need help. I have to go."

She nodded, too sick with radiation poisoning to speak, and turned him loose. John gave her shoulder an encouraging pat, then returned to the blazing building, thinking,

_'Damn, I'm no good at this.'_ From space, all they were was data points, to be shuffled efficiently from one area to another. On Earth they were people, with eyes that begged you not to let them die alone.

Scott struggled past, a minute later, a comatose scientist under each arm. John helped his brother get them out of doors, where the newly arrived Civil Defense crew took over. He made a quick side trip, had just time to direct the medics to the poisoned woman, then rejoined Scott at the radioactive mouth of hell.

Several miles away, Gordon waited for the pod door to finish opening, then hurried down into baking sunlight. Dark haired, drably clad people (men, mostly) crowded round him immediately, shouting questions and comments he didn't understand. His hastily memorized Persian phrases being not much help (he mangled them terribly), Gordon lost patience with all the chaos and shouting. No one was listening, and nothing was getting done, while moment by moment, death crept silently closer on the wings of the searing-hot wind.

_"Shut up, and pay attention!" _he ordered. Then, making a big, circling motion with one arm, he snapped into the sudden silence, "International Rescue, we're here t' help! Everyone...inside..._now!"_

A broad shooing gesture, directed toward the pod's interior, accompanied the second bit. Obvious enough, he'd have thought, but... nothing. They stood there, staring at him, seeming not to understand the need for haste. Finally, still fierce with impatience, Gordon pointed toward the distant, smouldering reactor and its shroud of poisoned smoke.

"That cloud's headed this way, and it's toxic. You'll be killed, the lot of you, if y' don't put a bit of snap in your step!" Then, with growing frustration, "My teammates 're up there, waitin' for back up. We haven't time to sit about debating this, dammit!"

An older man arrived (turbaned and mustached, in loose, white and tan clothing). Gordon took him to be some sort of village headman, as the crowd parted respectfully to let him through, and waited in silence while he approached. Identifying himself, Gordon tried again, repeating the warning as slowly as possible, and making many broad hand signals. _Something_ got through. Shooting a swift glance at the reactor, the old fellow nodded once. Then, he turned to his massed followers and began calling orders.

"Finally," Gordon muttered, rubbing at the back of his neck. "Someone who speaks bloody English!" Or understood sign language, at any rate. All at once, the village began to move; lock, stock, barrel... and flocks.


	3. Chapter 3: Evacuation

3

John and Scott had reached the reactor core, fighting their way through flame and debris with extinguishers, ropes and deftly wielded pry bars. The Mole would have been faster, but drilling under the reactor would only have worsened the containment problem. The tracked burrower was simply too big and unwieldy for such delicate work, and left behind onemonstrous hole. No other choice but to head in on foot, then, and spend as little time there as possible.

The reactor's nuclear heart lay just ahead of them; pulsing a hard, lethal blue. The uranium rods, John noted absently, were just about fully exposed in their cracked and draining tank, beginning to sag and deform from their own fearsome heat. The siren shrieked madly on and on, so loud it was difficult to think straight.

_'Water,'_ he decided, looking around for some sort of emergency valve or wheel. According to Ahmet, something had stuck shut or jammed in the cooling system, shortly before the tank split. The immediate threat, meltdown and china syndrome, would have to be dealt with first, and that meant coolant of some sort. Right the hell now.

Spotting two emergency shut off wheels amidst the tangle of pipes, John directed Scott to one with a quick point, then took himself off to the other. He had to literally hang from the thing to make it turn, not having Virgil or Gordon's great strength, but the wheel finally moved, screeching around in a shower of rusty flakes. Then, with a series of coughing gurgles, water began to flow.

Back at the village, more or less simultaneously, the elderly headman had evidently decided that Gordon meant _everyone._ Not just men, women and children were clambering aboard Thunderbird 2, but their animals as well. The folk bustled in leading donkeys, herding goats and carrying pets. And all at once, 2 was a giant farmyard.

"Not the livestock," Gordon started to object, attempting to catch a little donkey's halter rope. An old lady peered up at him, though, her wrinkled face anxious, one hand at the donkey's bridle, the other leading a small, dark-eyed boy. She couldn't understand why he'd stopped her, and he didn't know how to explain. All he saw was a smelly, heavily burdened animal, one the old lady and her young charge seemed quite unable to part with. For that matter, neither could anyone else. There were almost as many beasts aboard as people, filling the pod with their strong, musky stench, and their stacks and piles of provisions.

It was all the supplies that finally explained the matter. The donkey, Gordon suddenly understood, with its load of grain and vegetables, represented all of her worldly goods. What would she, or any of them, do without their livelihood? Sighing, he let go the rope and waved her on, even smiling a little.

"Go ahead, Ma'am. Room for everyone, further back."

The old lady said something warm in reply, smiling at him with very few teeth. Then she went determinedly on her way, donkey, toddler, and all.

"Virgil," he groaned aloud, to an uncomprehending herdsman, "is going t' _kill_ me."


	4. Chapter 4: Left Behind

4

Water gushed onto the glowing fuel rods, disappearing almost as quickly as it roared forth, in great billowing clouds of radioactive steam. But the cracked tank would fill no more than halfway, unless...

A vehicle (a sort of front-end loader with mechanical arms)huddled still and abandoned where it had ground to a halt beside the big concrete tank.

Signaling Scott, John strode to the remote maintenance vehicle and set about turning the thing on. There was a way to steer it manually, thank heaven, for it was a sure bet that no command signals were going to get through all this. His older brother joined him as the remote vibrated reluctantly to life. Scott climbed up alongside, pointing at the radiation sensor on his suit sleeve. Well past unsafe now, and deeply into _'hell, no'_.

John shrugged, thinking,

'_I know, Scott, but this part of the world's about to have a very hard day if we don't do something, fast.'_

Frustrated by his inability to communicate, but trusting John's judgement, Scott went along. Next time, he decided, he was going to pack a slate and marker. High technology didn't always cut it.

Together, using hand signals and teamwork, he and John got the loader headed in the right direction and began collecting chunks and slabs of concrete. The stuff sagged like warm chocolate, but it held up long enough to be piled against the cracked cooling tank.

This close to the unshielded rods, the heat was volcanic. Even inside his protective suit, Scott felt as split and blistered as a hot dog. John looked as bad, slumping over the controls in the weird blue light, half-dead, but determined.

He'd count to thirty, Scott decided, then get John out of here if he had to knock him out to do it. If they couldn't stop the meltdown from here, they could always fall back and try another strategy from Thunderbird 1. Death had a sort of final way of limiting one's options, though.

At the thirty count, he manhandled John off the faltering loader, pushing him out of danger as the tank's water level began to rise.

Back at the village, Gordon nearly got into a fistfight with the very folk he was supposed to be saving. Among the last to start aboard, a hard-faced man with a teenaged girl in tow was all but dragging the lass, clearly against her will, into the pod. That in itself wasn't enough to make him intervene. Gordon had learned quickly enough, after trying to help a limping woman up the steep ramp, that Virgil was right; the local men didn't like their women being touched. So, though he had to steel himself not to interfere, or even look much interested, one cloth-muffled female after another struggled up the slope clutching babes and burdens, without his help. The stone-age Pacific Islanders had been much the same, and violent, into the bargain.

This was different, though. This girl seemed to be pleading desperately with her... husband? Brother? Uncle? ...to be let back down. To Gordon's eye, she seemed to have left something priceless behind. Or some_one_.

He started forward, meaning to force through a few hand-signaled questions, then paused, deeply shocked. In his tension and hurry, the man had lifted a hand to her, making as if to strike the lass, who shrank, but stood her ground, still crying.

Once again reacting without a second thought, Gordon lunged over and seized the man's arm before the blow could fall.

"Let her alone!" he snapped, shoving the bigger man halfway off the ramp. The village chieftain got between them before they came to blows, fortunately. A crowd of scowling men swiftly gathered round, shifting and muttering. Soundly berating the sullen husband (?), the old fellow sent him off to the back of the pod, hauling the girl after him. The dignified headman then turned and directed a comment at Gordon in a high, shaky voice. But, without John there to translate, the boy understood nothing but the head shake and apologetic shrug. Still, the matter gnawed at him.

"Virgil," Gordon called over his wrist comm, unwilling to let the business go, despite their urgent haste. "Got a moment?"

"Go ahead, Gordon. What's the holdup? And that smell? You aren't packing _animals _in there, are you?" Like his brother, he recalled the primitive islanders with disquiet.

Staring innocently down at his brother's transmitted frown, Gordon lied (just a little).

"Packin'? No, not exactly. Where'd you get that notion? But listen, I think there might be someone left behind, back at the village. This lot's nearly set. Could you give me a quick second or so, to run check?"

'_Someone left behind'_ were the magic words. Virgil had a soft spot for runts and stragglers of all sorts. Obviously torn, he replied,

"Okay. Go get 'em. But make it snappy, Gordon. We've got to get moving."

"F.A.B. On m' way, Virgil." And then, giving a hurried nod to the old man, Gordon sprinted down the ramp and out into hundred and twenty degree heat and bludgeoning sun.


	5. Chapter 5: Rescue

5

The patch worked. Water still oozed from the cracks, but the plasticky concrete filled enough chinks to slow the leak to a trickle. Gradually, inch by boiling inch, the fuel rods were once again inundated.

Now the place would need to be decontaminated and sealed away, the rods removed for safe disposal, but the worst threat had passed. The impending meltdown had been averted. Thundering water jets from outside were already dealing with the fire, and crews were moving in to stop up the leaking dome.

Scott drew John's arm across his shoulders, and helped his unresisting brother out of the reactor chamber. They got out together, in blistered protective suits that would have to be buried in a salt mine, somewhere deep and lonely. The applauding Civil Defense crew gave them a wide berth, standing by with lead caskets for the radioactive gear.

Scott would have had John order them not to photograph or examine the hazard suits, but he rather doubted anyone was really game to try. _'Contaminated' _was too mild a word. _'Shit-toxic' _came closer to the mark.

"You going to be okay?" He asked John a bit later, in the shadow of Thunderbird 1, after the suits were off. His brother looked pretty rough; exhausted and ice-pale.

"I'm fine, Scott," John said evenly, his blue eyes impassive. "Need some time in decontamination, is all." Then, casually, "There's something I need to check on. Go ahead with the start up." He got to his feet, swayed unsteadily for just an instant, then went on, adroitly avoiding Scott's bracing hand. "I'll catch a ride with Virgil."

"John, you're in no shape to..."

"Like I said..., I'm fine. You've got things to do that won't wait. Don't let me keep you."

Tired himself, and angry now, Scott started to shout him down, then thought better of it. John would only get colder, and more stubborn, if pressed. There was no way to win an argument with John Tracy, short of pistol-whipping him. Scott shook his head. He'd never really understood his brother. Cared for him, yes. Figured him out, no.

"Don't be long," he finally, grudgingly, allowed. "Civil Defense's got this in hand, and we both need time in the infirmary."

John nodded once and headed off. As he was walking away, Scott called after him,

"You did good in there, John. I mean it."

"Thanks." Over the shoulder, and unconcerned.

Nothing, Scott decided, ever really shook John.

XXX

At first run-through, the rocky little village appeared deserted. Gordon wasn't certain what or who to look for, however, so he slowed down a bit for the second pass, peering into the dark interior of each square stone house as he went, calling out that Thunderbird 2 was about to leave.

Nothing. All was silent and still, baking in blast-furnace heat beneath the shadow of an on-coming radioactive cloud. Then, beside a kind of outdoor, hive-shaped clay oven, he spied movement. A cat. Grey and white tabby, with odd eyes. He laughed a little and went over, putting out a hand.

"Is _that _what this is all about? A damn kitten? Well..., come on, then, Puss. Someone _really..."_

The cat miaowed in a thin, chirrupy voice, rubbing its washboard sides against hard yellow clay. As the still-smiling boy bent to scoop her up, something rattled inside the oven. Confused, Gordon knelt down and looked within.

It was acrid-dark in there, but for a bit of light that got around him, and a ray or two through the smoke hole, and it took his eyes awhile to adjust. Then Gordon saw a tiny, huddled shape, crouched by the bread oven's far wall. Two years old, maybe, with dark eyes too big for her sooty face, and mussed-up brown hair.

"Hello, there," he said, smiling at the solemnly suspicious little girl. For some reason, she reminded him rather of Rosemary. "Given y'r mum a scare, haven't you? Come on, then," and he reached within, only to have the child shrink away, just out of range. _Damn._ It had never occurred to Gordon that she might be frightened of him.

"Right, then," he tried again, soothingly. "I'm no prize, but I don't usually inspire horror, either."

No good. Still the same huge eyes and bitten lip; and the clock was ticking. There had to be _something, _some way to win the lass over... He got a notion, all at once. Well, it had worked a time or two with stray dogs, might do with babes, as well.

Reaching into one of his belt pouches, Gordon pulled out a limp chocolate energy bar (never liked the taste much, really, but they kept him going). He broke it in two, took a small bite from his half, and offered the rest to the little girl.

Still looking fifty sorts of untrusting, she put forth a grubby small hand and snatched it away, too wise to quite come within reach, damn the luck. So, cutting off his wrist comm lest a sudden noise startle her further, Gordon sat down low enough where she could see him, ate his half of the candy, and started talking, keeping a weather eye on the approaching cloud.

"It's like this, Angel; that toxic nightmare over there's about to pop off, your mum's in a state, an' everyone's waiting. Now, I can't leave without you, Virgil _damn _sure won't go without me, and we're puttin' your whole village in danger, sittin' around, like this."

She listened, nibbled delicately away at the almost-chocolate bar, but stayed put. Still no score. Gordon tried again, doing his best to sound harmless.

"I can't get in there, Angel; too big about the shoulders. I can't break the thing over your head, and I'm not goin' back to your mum empty handed. Never be able t' live with myself. So, _please..._, trust me?" Then, as the kitten rubbed, purring, against his uniform sleeve, caging a bit of leftover sweet, "Look..., the kitty does."

Her big eyes went from the cat to Gordon, then to his belt, from which she evidently hoped for more candy. Making a careful show of reaching into the belt pouch, he drew forth another energy bar and offered it to her, close enough this time for a swift grab.

"Come, Sweetie, please. There's not much time."

As it turned out, no sudden moves were necessary. She made up her mind with childish speed (strange hair guy equals candy ), crawled nimbly out of the soot and ashes, and took the bar.

Deeply thankful, Gordon lifted her into his arms, picked up the cat, and got to his feet. The girl swung her legs contentedly and devoured the second energy bar, babbling away in foreign baby-talk. She seemed particularly fascinated by his red hair, clutching at it several times with chocolate-smeared little hands. Gordon hazarded a few answers as he jogged along the scorching-hot village street. Not that it seemed to matter. She was as uncomprehendingly happy as the kitten.

At length, Gordon remembered to switch on his wrist comm. Virgil was nearly beside himself with impatience.

"Gordon, answer me!" He snapped worriedly. "I'll set this Bird down and come after you if I have to, but you won't like..." Then, seeing his brother's sweat-streaked face on his right view screen. "Where the hell have you _been?_ Did you find the missing... girl," he finished up, as Gordon, saving his wind for cross country running, turned the watch about to face the little one. "Okay, good enough. Pick up the pace, Kiddo. We've got places to be."

Sure. Right. Marathon furnace death-race 2065, coming up. He was starting to regret the sticky-sweet energy bar, which seemed to have formed an unholy alliance with the whiskey, or maybe the ash, falling now like soft grey snow.

Pouring on the speed, Gordon careened up the ramp a few minutes later, close to heat stroke. Holding child and kitten up above the villager's heads, he gasped,

"Anyone... here... want t' claim... these two?"

A long, wavering scream burst from the rear of the crowded pod, and the little one's mother dashed over, her husband following after at a more sedate pace. He looked decidedly contrite. Possibly the rest of his folk had been at him for how he'd treated his young wife.

The child was handed over. She pointed at Gordon's hair and laughed uproariously, saying something that her mother was too busy sobbing to hear. The teen-aged girl never looked at Gordon directly, addressing a long, heart-felt statement to the deck, but her husband extended a hand, which Gordon solemnly shook.

"Um... eh..., no good is..., my English," the man attempted bravely, one arm around the woman and child.

"S' alright," Gordon responded, hitting the wrist comm to let Virgil know he was safely aboard. "My... pretty near everything but a bit of Spanish... sucks, as well. An' I'm not all that good with that, either." And then, as the man gave him a rather bewildered smile, "Got t' go, Sir. Needed up top. Take care of them."

The pod door ground slowly shut on villagers and noisy menagerie, while Thunderbird 2 settled onto the giant container like a hen covering a very large egg. Gordon took his leave of the village headman, then turned and sprinted for the forward ladder, feeling 2's engines rumble alive through sounding hull and vibrating deck.


	6. Chapter 6: Passing

6

John got away from Scott, then headed past Thunderbird 1 for the Civil Defense Crews' hasty staging center. Jeeps and armed military doctors rushed about, far too busy to question his presence. He looked around for a moment or two, tired and sore, then spotted her.

John knew triage, and her position wasn't good. They'd filed her away in the _'don't bother' _section, a few yards from the corpses. Understandable, in a way; the radiation had done so much cellular damage that she was hemorrhaging inside and out like an ebola victim.

He snagged a water bottle, went over and sat on the sand beside her, arranging himself so that he shaded her face. Then, helping the mortally poisoned young woman to drink, he started a conversation, waiting long minutes for each hoarsely whispered reply.

She was an engineer, two years out of Tehran University, her name was Fatima, and she was a brave woman. John listened, spoke a little of himself, and held her hand until she died. And all the while, the chaos and hurry of transport went on about them, like white water pulsing and surging past a small, frozen island.

When it was over, John closed her eyes, covered her pale face with her blood-stained head cloth and left, feeling utterly useless. Hadn't done a damn bit of good, he thought to himself. Wrist comm seemed to be fried, or he would have contacted his computer. Several brief, gentle pulses from his ID chip let him know that 5 was there, though. Other than that, it was a long, silent wait for Thunderbird 2.

After pickup, John betook himself to the rear crew cabin and sat down to wait out the ride. He'd developed a headache, and the opening salvo of radiation nausea, so the dark and quiet were a relief after Persia's white-hot summer sun.

They were ten minutes in the air and on their way when the forward hatch opened up, and Gordon bounded in.

"You shouldn't be here," John reprimanded his younger brother, quite reasonably. "I'm contaminated."

Gordon shrugged, flopped down on a nearby seat, and strapped himself in.

"So am I, probably. The whole lot of us, for that matter, an' they've got a trick for that, back on the island. Virgil's alright alone, for the time being, and I thought you could use some company."

Ordinarily, John would have packed him off, but this time, he let it alone. Gordon meant well, after all.

"So, what happened at your end?" his nearly youngest brother asked him, brushing what looked like chocolate and animal hair off himself.

"Not much," John replied tiredly. "Got in, pulled some scientists out, then helped Scott shut down the reactor. Two, three hours, maybe."

Gordon shook his head, smiling. That was John, for you; Iceman, through and through. He said,

"Right. No panic. Damn reactor threatening to melt down right beside you, an' you're bored! Must be nice. Let me tell you what kind of day _I _had. Huh...? Oh..., the smell, right. Goats. Hang on..., I can explain."

John listened, smiled from time to time, and got on with things. Business as usual.


End file.
